by Andy Lane
The Doctor was standing in the window alcove. In his hands he held one of Holmes's files: the volume marked "T". I recognized him at once as the man I had conversed with in the Library, the one who had babbled of custard and metaphors.
'I will trouble you to put down that file,' Holmes snapped. Within two strides he was towering over the Doctor and removing the offending object from his hands. 'It ill behoves a visitor to rifle through private papers unasked.'
'It wasn't Spink, you know.'
'What?'
'I couldn't help reading the details of one of your cases. The terrible murder of the Atkinson brothers in Trincomalee. Spink was innocent.'
I noticed that the word "terrible" rolled off his tongue with relish. There was the hint of an accent in his voice that I could not place.
'The man robbed the world of justice by taking his own life.' Holmes strode across the room and replaced the volume. 'The case was simple; the solution obvious.'
'Ah,' said the Doctor, 'but did you take into account the significant delay in the onset of rigor mortis in tropical climates? It's all in that file.'
Holmes's face suffused with fury. I thought he was going to throw our visitor bodily through the window, so great was his rage, until a strange thing happened. A look passed across Holmes's face: a look of sudden realization and, even worse, shock.
'I. . ' he started to say, and trailed off into silence. His gaze travelled across the little man, and I had learned enough about reading expressions to tell that he was attempting to descry some detail about our visitor: his work, his character, his manner.
'I see from your appearance that you . . ' Holmes trailed off into silence; puzzled. 'Your cuffs suggest . .'
Again, he halted. He frowned. I could see that he was at a loss. 'That soil on your gaiter, I do not recognize it,' he said finally.
The Doctor grabbed at his foot and pulled it up to eye level.
'Ah,' he said, 'a slurry of clay and dust from Menaxus. Now there's a place to go for a show.'
'Menaxus? I am not familiar with the name: it must be a small village.
Greek, I would venture.'
The Doctor tilted his head back and smiled a toothy grin.
'Menaxus is close to the Rippearean cluster.'
'And the spatulate appearance of your right forefinger. It is similar to that seen in typists, but I would have expected an indentation across your right thumb from the space bar.'
The Doctor peered at the offending digit as if he had just found it on his dinner plate.
'Ah, he said, relieved, and jabbed at the air with the finger. 'Too much prodding of large, metal creatures.'
Holmes and I looked across at each other. The man was obviously deranged.
'I see that you dabble in chemistry' the Doctor said, walking across to the deal-topped table where Holmes kept his retorts and flasks.
'I am presently researching into coal-tar derivatives,' Holmes replied, drawing himself up stiffly. 'Now, may I ask what your business is with us?'
'Take precautions if you ever manage to distil coronic acid,' the Doctor muttered, picked up three flasks filled with liquid and juggling with them. 'It's a nasty substance. Very nasty indeed.'
'I would be obliged if you would...'
'Yes, I know. You would be obliged if I put down these flasks. Oh, very well.'
He placed them back on the table and turned to Holmes.
'I have no business with you,' he said, finally answering Holmes's question.
'But you have business with me.'
The Doctor threw himself into Holmes's armchair and grinned up at us.
Holmes opened his mouth to make a cutting reply, but a knock at the door interrupted him. We turned as Mrs Hudson limped into the room with a tray bearing cups, saucers, plates, cakes and a teapot.
'I took the liberty of ordering tea,' the Doctor said, grinning up ingenuously at Mrs Hudson. 'Your landlady is a treasure.'
Mrs Hudson pampered the Doctor as if he were the vicar come to call: pouring his tea, sweetening it and cutting him a slice of Madeira cake.
Holmes and I looked on, aghast. Her usual attitude to our visitors ranged from disinterest to barely veiled contempt. Despite my recent lunch the sight of the Doctor gobbling down the cake made my stomach rumble. I sat in my usual chair, cut myself a slice and poured a cup of tea. Holmes remained, raging impotently, on his feet.
'Now,' the Doctor babbled on after three slices and two cups had gone the way of all things. 'Where were we? Ah yes, the robbery at the Library of St John the Beheaded. I presume you will have questioned Mr Ambrose, and received from him a list of recent visitors to the Library. My name will be on that list. I suspect that I want to know who took those books just as much as you do, and that's why I am here, to pool resources, share information, spread panic and sow the seeds of defeat in the fields of our enemies. Now I realize that I am just as much a suspect as anybody else on that list -' he suddenly frowned and looked away ' - a position I find myself adopting with monotonous regularity -' he smiled sunnily and looked back at us again ' -
but I don't see why that can't be just as much the basis for a long and fruitful relationship as mutual trust. Now, any questions?'
Holmes held up the Doctor's card.
'You give no address.'
'Ah.' The Doctor stood. 'I travel.'
'No fixed abode,' said Holmes, towering over the diminutive figure.
'Oh, I have a fixed abode.' The Doctor plucked the card from Holmes's hand and slipped it into his waistcoat. 'But it travels. "Not bound to swear allegiance to any master, wherever the wind takes me I travel as a visitor":
'I do not appreciate flippancy,' Holmes snapped.
'I always try to mix a little foolishness with my serious plans,' the Doctor replied, gazing up into Holmes's face. 'It's lovely to be silly at the right moment. But, if it makes you feel any better, I am currently lodging in Hampstead.'
'With whom?'
'Professor Litefoot. You may know of him.'
At this juncture I interjected, 'Not Professor George Litefoot, the eminent pathologist?'
'The very same!'
Holmes was not to be put off so easily.
'And what exactly are you a Doctor of?' he growled.
'Metaphysico-theologico-cosmologo-nigology!' announced the Doctor triumphantly.
Holmes pursed his lips and strode to the window.
'Facile quotations from Voltaire will not help your case,' he barked. 'If you remain unwilling to provide a straight answer then I can only surmise that you are unwilling to cooperate with our investigations.'
'Oh very well.' The little man pouted, and stared down at his gaiters. 'If it helps, I took a medical degree in Edinburgh in eighteen seventy.'
'What a coincidence!' I exclaimed. 'I studied for my Bachelor's degree and my baccalaureate at the University of Edinburgh from that very year onwards! I must say,' and I studied his features more closely, 'that I do not remember you.'
The Doctor shifted uneasily in Holmes's armchair.
'I can't say I'm surprised. I looked different then.'
I stroked my moustache and looked ruefully down at my figure: stockier now than it had been seventeen years ago.
'So did I,' I admitted.
'This is getting us nowhere,' Holmes pronounced, staring out of the window.
'Be so good as to tell me what your researchers were at the Library, Doctor.'
'India.'
'More specifically.'
'Hindu mythology:'
'More specifically still.'
'Legends concerning the rakshassi.'
'Rakshassi?' I asked.
'Demons from the pantheon of the Indian subcontinent,' Holmes replied tersely.
'Usually associated with the worship of Kali,' the Doctor added. 'Kali being the Indian goddess of death and destruction.'
'I thought you had been in India, Watson,' Holmes asked.
'I passed through ten years ago on my way to Afgha
nistan,' I replied, 'but I confess I took little interest in the heathen ceremonies of the natives.'
The Doctor glanced over at me, and there was something dark and unpleasant in his eyes.
'God's in his heaven and all's right in the world,' he sneered.
I drew myself up to respond to the gibe, but Holmes interrupted, saying,
'And the books that were stolen: they were all associated with this subject?'
'As you well know.'
As I watched the clash of wills between the two men I could not help but recall the words that I had written about Holmes some six years before, soon after the occasion of our first meeting. I had been drawing up a list of his interests in an attempt to more closely understand his character. I had jotted down, in no particular order, that he was well up on poisons generally, that he could tell at a glance different soils from each other, that his knowledge of anatomy was accurate but limited, that his knowledge of sensational crime and criminal law was immense and that he was an expert boxer, singlestick player and swordsman, but that he knew nothing of astronomy, philosophy or literature. At this point I had thrown the list away, crying: 'If I can only find what the fellow is driving at by reconciling all these accomplishments . . .!' I could see something of the same thought process concerning the Doctor going through Holmes's mind.
'Perhaps we might be better employed,' the Doctor said finally, breaking both Holmes's and my train of thought, 'in examining the list of other visitors to the Library. Accepting that I am naturally a suspect, we should question the others as soon as possible. May I see the list?'
Holmes turned away to gaze out of the window onto the Baker Street bustle below.
'I retain an accurate memory of the names,' he said, 'and there is, therefore, no necessity to examine the list. Your own name appears, of course, Doctor, as does that of a Mrs Kate Prendersly of Whitefields Lodge in Deptford, an inmate of Broadmoor named Minor, a certain Baron Maupertuis, his manservant, Surd...'
'How do you know he is the Baron's manservant, Holmes?' I interjected.
'The address is the same, Watson,' Holmes said, pityingly. 'And since he is only referred to by a surname, without any qualifier, the conclusion is obvious.'
'Any other names?' the Doctor asked.
'A Professor Challenger, whose address is given as "care of the Royal Society".'
'And?' The Doctor's expression was carefully neutral.
Holmes's voice was level as he replied: 'No other names appear on the list.'
'Are you sure, Mr Holmes?'
'Do you accuse me of dishonesty, Sir?'
'How should I presume?' the Doctor murmured.
'Perhaps,' I ventured, sensing the sudden hostility between Holmes and the Doctor, but not understanding its cause, 'we should visit these people. Talk to them. Ascertain their reasons for visiting the Library. Perhaps some pertinent fact might emerge of which we are at present unaware.'
'A capital idea,' the Doctor said, leaping to his feet and rubbing his hands together gleefully. 'I'll start with Professor Challenger, Doctor Watson can tackle Miss Prendersly and you, Mr Holmes...' He was still smiling, but his eyes glinted coldly. '. . . You can choose your own suspects.'
'Since you yourself are still a suspect,' Holmes retorted, 'might I suggest that you accompany Watson to Deptford.'
'Very well.' The Doctor made for the door, picking a multicoloured umbrella from the umbrella stand as he did so. 'I'll hail a cab.'
He vanished from our rooms and scampered down the stairs.
'A rum character,' I observed.
'There is more to that man than meets the eye,' Holmes said. 'He may seem to be at times almost ridiculous, almost the fool, but he has a shrewd brain. Watch him, Watson. Don't let him out of your sight. I want to know everything he says and everything he does.'
'But why on Earth do you want to associate him with this investigation?'
'I suspect that he will be associated with it whether we want him to be or not. At least this way we get to keep a close eye on him.'
I moved to take my walking stick from the coat rack, and exclaimed, 'Not raining outside, is it Holmes?'
'Not for days,' he replied. 'Why?'
'There's some water in the bottom of the coat rack.'
He bent to examine it, and came up rubbing his fingers together.
'Not water, Watson, but oil.'
'Oil?' I reiterated stupidly.
'Indeed. Most singular.' He wiped his hands on his jacket. 'You had better not keep the Doctor waiting.'
'And what of you, Holmes? What are your plans?'
'I shall endeavour to meet up with Mr Jitter's opposite number,' he said,
'Mack Yeovil and I have crossed swords before, and so I think some form of disguise is called for.'
I discovered the Doctor sitting at the bottom of our stairs and conversing with our page-boy in a casual manner that I felt was unsuited to dealings with a servant. I curtly bade him accompany me, and whistled down a hansom almost immediately. As the cab trotted off he planted his umbrella on the floor, rested his forearms upon its handle and frowned. A melancholic expression shadowed his features, and I found myself wondering who he was and where he came from.
'Gallifrey,' he muttered.
'I'm sorry?'
'You were wondering where I came from.'
'That's astounding. How did you know?'
'Elementary.'
'Gallifrey . . . that sounds Irish.'
He looked sideways at me and said nothing.
The cab clattered through London, with us sitting inside in silence. I watched with confused feelings the loungers, shop girls, street-sweepers and dollymoppers who thronged the streets. It was so easy to see them as a backdrop: a featureless, characterless crowd of extras, called on stage as we came near and sent back to their dressing rooms as we passed. Most of Holmes's cases were conducted amongst people of our own class or above; it was rare, especially since Holmes's reputation had spread and my medical practice in Paddington had become established, that we mixed with people below our station. And yet the events of that morning were still clear enough in my mind that I knew these people must have lives, homes, families, desires and hates that I never usually gave any consideration to.
The aegis of the British Empire stretched across many foreign lands, but it occurred to me for the first time that the division between rich and poor in London matched anything to be found in Bangalore or Calcutta.
' "The poor always ye have with you",' the Doctor quoted in a doom-laden voice, and then sighed. 'Wherever I go, certain universal truths always hold. There is always evil, and there are always those with and those without.'
We were passing across the balustraded expanse of London Bridge now.
The Doctor's words set me thinking about the course my life had taken.
When I made the decision to be a surgeon I had wanted to relieve human suffering: a noble enough aim, I suppose, if a trifle naive. I joined the army for the same reason, but the Afghan War cured me of my youthful innocence. I quickly realized that human suffering was largely due to humans, and the meagre amount of relief I could give was like trying to bale out the ocean with a teaspoon. During the eight hours or so that the battle of Maiwand lasted almost two hundred of us had been wounded, and almost a thousand killed. I had contracted enteric fever, was invalided out, and drifted to London: depressed over the scale of misery, horror and ignorance I had encountered and powerless to do anything about it. I had fallen in with Holmes, but what had I achieved since our chance meeting and my decision to chronicle some of his adventures? We had returned various stolen sets of jewels to their rightful owners and averted a handful of scandals in high society. What was the point? How did this square with my youthful aims?
My mood when we drew up at our destination was not light.
Whitefields Lodge was a large, square house set in its own grounds and girt around with a low stone wall. It made quite a contrast to the regular run of houses in the
locality; squat, dark terraces, snaking downhill to the Thames and relieved only by the tawdry glare of public houses on every corner. Raucous dockers' songs drifted through the late afternoon.
As we paid off the driver and crossed the road, I became aware that somebody was watching us. My instincts developed on the Afghan front and finely honed through years of working with Holmes - were jangling. I glanced around, trying not to attract attention.
'The shadow on the wall, to the left of the dilapidated house,' the Doctor hissed.